Taylor’s mouth twitched into an almost-grin, then flattened, small twin lines forming between his brows. “I don’t need to say anything tonight about … you know. We can just be two guys having dinner with my married friends.”
My first instinct was to take the easy out. To say, “Yes, let’s do that.” But I could still see the look on Taylor’s face earlier when he’d pointed out my hypocrisy around Wyatt compared to what I was willing to risk for him. With him.
I hadn’t had the balls to explain the real reason I’d behaved so recklessly that night. It wasn’t about trusting Wyatt more than Taylor. It was jealousy—small and ugly and festering since the day Wyatt and Celine announced their engagement.
I didn’t love Wyatt. It wasn’tthatkind of jealousy. I simply hated how easily he’d put me aside. We hadn’t discussed anything beforehand; I’d simply been told to fall in line. He’d wounded my pride.
And after Celine’s condo edict, I’d been feeling extra wounded. A small part of me wouldn’t have cared if I’d blown the whole thing up just to spite them.For one brief moment out on that dance floor, I’d let myself imagine destroyingeverythingjust to take them down with me. The fantasy had flooded me with something hot and electric, and it was satisfying enough that I only barely managed to recognize the edge I was standing on.
I hadn’t cared what happened to Wyatt.
With Taylor, I cared too much.
But I didn’t want him to make himself smaller to accommodate my uncertainty about what this was or where it was going. I didn’t want him coming out to his friends for something that might fall apart in a month.
But I also couldn’t keep asking him to hide while I figured out whether I was brave enough to let this be real.
“No,” I said, the word scraping out of my throat. “That’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?” Taylor asked, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel as he turned onto a tree-lined street where houses sat far back from the road.
“Yeah. We’re good.”
He slowed the car as we approached a white, modern farmhouse-style house with a wraparound porch. A silver SUV sat in the driveway next to a vintage red Mustang in what looked to be pristine condition.
“Wow. Nice car.”
“But not as nice as my Corvette." He flashed me a grin, daring me to argue, but I couldn't.
I wasn't your typical car guy, but the second I laid eyes on it, I'd fallen deeply in love. It might have had something to do with the fact that it reminded me of James Dean, one of my first crushes, but I was keeping that to myself.
We pulled behind the SUV, and Taylor put the car into park. Through the windshield, I could see movement inside the house—someone tall passing by the window.
“Ready?” Taylor asked.
“Not really,” I answered truthfully. “But let’s do this anyway.”
I grabbed the wine while Taylor retrieved the six-pack of beer from the back seat. The front door opened before we could even knock.
The man who greeted us was taller than Taylor but shorter than me, with blond hair pulled back into a bun, his blue eyes bright with warmth. He wore loose-fitting jeans that looked soft to the touch, with a white t-shirt that clung to his body, showing off the kind of physique that should only exist on statues and superheroes. His feet were bare, his toenails painted a bright, glittery pink.
Stryker Bell, captain and right winger of the Maine Marauders, and one of the NHL's first openly out players.
He pulled Taylor into a one-armed hug, clapping him on the back. “Right on time.”
He turned toward me, openly assessing. Measuring. It was the same sort of assessment I typically used when sizing up a situation.
But it was more than that, too. There was an almost territorial quality to the way his gaze moved from me to Taylor and back again, as if he was trying to decide whether I was worthy of his teammate.
I rarely wilted under anyone’s inspection, but something about this man's appraisal gave me pause. It was as if with just one look, he was able to identify and catalog every chink in my armor. For a heartbeat, I felt the urge to retreat, but fought that instinct back.
“Well, aren’t you pretty?” The corner of Bell’s mouth twitched, and he shot me a wink.
Heat crawled up my neck into my face as Taylor made a choking sound beside me.
“Jesus Christ, Bell,” he wheezed.
“What? I’m just making an observation.” He extended his hand in greeting. “You must be the college roommate Taylor told me about.”
